


Fixer

by FourCatProductions



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Also Have Sex in the Office, Dubious Ethics, Explicit Sexual Content, Gambling, In Which Terrible People Go About Their Business, M/M, Oral Sex, Poor Life Choices, Semi-Public Sex, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24209392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: A fixer and part-time bookie with a string of bad habits and questionable men, Peryn's no stranger to Solitude's criminal justice system. This time, though, bail comes with a higher price than anticipated.
Relationships: Erikur (Elder Scrolls)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23
Collections: 5E201





	Fixer

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely self-indulgent porn with a dash of world-building, featuring morally gray characters behaving badly. If that's your jam, I hope you enjoy.

“Peryn Wicksley,” the guard barks, and the clang of the cell door echoes when it’s thrown open. “Bail’s paid up. You’re free to go.”

Erikur waits at the counter, ignoring the stares of the guards and the drunken hollering of the inmates down the hall. He knows what he looks like, suit and tie pressed, florescent light reflecting off his polished leather shoes and genuine silver Saxhleel watch – too expensive to be there, let alone represent the man currently being fished out of the drunk tank. It never gets less satisfying, no matter how many times it happens.

“You’re lucky I was awake,” he says, flicking a speck of lint from his cuffs as the guard buzzes Peryn out. “I don’t normally take calls from clients after eleven.”

“I know, I know, and you know I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t an emergency,” Peryn starts, hands up, palms out. The sheen of sweat on his forehead shines like an oil slick under the lights. His dark hair is greasy and there’s dried blood on his chin from the split in his lip, a bruise forming high on his cheek. He’s still trying for something that looks like a smile, the whites of his eyes showing. He’s a twitchy little man, Peryn, hunched up in his too-big trench coat, and Erikur relishes the flinch beneath his palm when he claps his shoulder, squeezing just a little too hard.

“Let’s go. If we stay any longer, I’m not going to be able to get the smell out of my suit.”

It’s a muggy summer night, humid, with a faint undercurrent of brine and salt in the air from the docks. They step out of the station, and Erikur gives his shoulder one last squeeze before he lets go, watching Peryn fumble for his squashed packet of cigarettes beneath the streetlight.

“I do have to wonder, though, why you called me and not that pretty sister of yours.”

Peryn snorts, flicking his lighter on. The flame kisses the tip of his cigarette, glowing red, and a gush of smoke curls from his nostrils when he exhales. “Gwen said she’s not bailing me out again until I pay her back,” he says. “Still owe her from last time.”

“Second match in six months,” Erikur reminds him, and steps forward, crowding into his space. He rarely smokes, but it’s worth it to watch Peryn squirm as he fishes cigarettes and lighter from the man’s jacket pocket, lighting one up inches from his face. He plucks it from his lips with two fingers and exhales, watching the thin ribbon of smoke snake skyward. So many stars, washed out by the lights. “Speaking of owing people…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Peryn mutters, shoulders up around his ears. “What do you want?”

“Come by my office tomorrow and we’ll discuss it.” Erikur pulls out his phone, scrolling through his calendar. “Say, two?” Not that Peryn really has a choice, but he finds the illusion makes it easier to persuade people.

“Fine.”

They smoke in silence for a moment longer, until Erikur’s car pulls up to the curb, neon lights rippling across its sleek black exterior. He stubs out his cigarette on the lamppost and tosses it into the gutter.

“Two o’clock, Peryn. Don’t forget.”

He doesn’t offer a ride, and Peryn doesn’t ask. Just gives him a mirthless little smile, sunken eyes darting from him to the street and back again.

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Good. Next time your illegal street fight gets raided, call someone else,” Erikur says, and raps the partition. The window rolls up, and the car pulls away from the curb. A few seconds later, his phone buzzes. When he clicks the screen on, there’s a new message from an unsaved number.

_you still came though_

Erikur grins, types _and now I own your ass,_ and turns his phone off as soon as he sends it. Tempted as he is to wait and see the response, he has an early morning ahead of him, and clients booked solid for the next week. He settles back in his seat and closes his eyes, letting the familiar hum of the engine lull him into a trance as the car speeds back towards his building.

He’s looking forward to lunch.

\----------

Erikur’s office is on the twelfth floor of some fancy downtown high-rise, sunlight glittering off the mirrored exterior. Peryn squints up at it, crushing his cigarette butt beneath the toe of his boot. They’re supposed to be meeting in ten minutes. He’s been there since one-thirty and he can’t quite make himself go in. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he jumps, fumbling for it with shaky hands, but it’s just Gwen, reminding him that they’re meeting for dinner the day after next.

_Seaside Bar & Grille, 8. If you’re late you’re paying. _

_See you then,_ he types, already shoving his phone back in his coat. One-fifty-two. He makes it up to Erikur’s office with thirty seconds to spare, the elevator pinging softly behind him. The lobby is tastefully decorated in blue and cream, Solitude’s royal colors, and Gisli sits behind the receptionist’s desk, flipping through a magazine. She gives no indication that she’s noticed him, even after he clears his throat, hands jammed in his pockets.

“Hey Gisli,” he says, when no greeting is forthcoming. “I’m here to see Erikur?”

“He’s on lunch,” she says. The page wobbles crisply when she turns it. Peryn resists the urge to snatch it out from under her nose and set it on fire.

“I know,” he says, in the voice he normally reserves for small children and the hopelessly drunk. “He told me to come see him on his lunch break.”

Gisli heaves a long-suffering sigh and hits the button on the intercom like it’s personally inconveniencing her, a buzz echoing faintly in the back office. Erikur’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“What?”

“Your next appointment is here,” Gisli says, sickly-sweet as she fixes Peryn with the evil eye. “Shall I buzz him in?”

“Send him back,” Erikur says, and the line goes dead.

“You heard him,” Gisli says, and waves him through, attention already back on her magazine. Peryn catches a glimpse as he squeezes past her desk – _15 Most Exciting Careers for Nords Under 30,_ the headline blares – but before he can read any more, she hunches over it with a protective glare, blocking it from view. Peryn rolls his eyes and lets himself into Erikur’s office, locking the door behind him.

“Before you say anything,” he says, “I was here on time.”

Erikur waves a hand at him. “Shut up and sit down.” The other one is occupied with half a sandwich, the wax paper open on his desk. He’s wearing a pin-stripe suit today, suitcoat slung over the back of his chair and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black and white with a blue silk tie. He’s a big man, Erikur, broad-shouldered and stubble-cheeked, and he knows it, likes to use it to his advantage when he can. Likes feeling bigger than everyone else around him. Peryn figures he should hate it, and it bothers him that he doesn’t. Not completely, anyway. He sits. Erikur tears into his sandwich, chewing loudly.

“I figured out how you’re going to pay me back,” he says, mouth half-full.

Peryn slumps down in his chair, legs crossed at the ankle in front of him. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

If Erikur hears the sarcasm, he doesn’t rise to it. “I placed a rather large bet with you a few days ago,” he says, blotting his lips with a napkin. “Palace Preakness. Ring any bells?”

Peryn laughs. He can’t help it. “You’re out of your damn mind if you think I’m trying to fix the Preakness.”

“As if you have that sort of reach,” Erikur says scornfully, taking another bite. Crumbs fleck the corners of his mouth. “No, no. I just need you to have a chat with one of the jockeys. Name of Lundin.”

 _Name of Lundin,_ he says, like he’s talking about some unknown rookie and not the former two-time Solitude Cup winner. Peryn stares at him, fingers curled uncertainly around the arms of his chair. He really needs a smoke. “You want me to ‘have a chat’ with Blaise Lundin.”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Erikur cracks the bottle of water on his desk, takes a long swig. “Lundin’s getting on in years. He’s belligerent, and he’s a drunk. Rumor has it he won’t even place for the Cup this year, given his last few races, but of course he’s too proud to step down.” He smiles indulgently at Peryn. “Which means…”

“That’s where I come in,” Peryn says, and drags a hand down his face, stubble prickling his palm. He needs a shave, too. A smoke and a shave and more than four hours of sleep a night. “Right. Fine. What’s the angle?”

“The horse, Stole-Your-Sweetroll? Top contender. Parents were both derby winners. Lundin’s dragging her down, and I need her to place tomorrow.” Erikur takes another drink, then sets the bottle aside. “I’ve put forth a new candidate to her owner. Wood elf jockey named Syndmir. He’s got serious promise. You know what they’re like with the horses.” He points one blunt finger at Peryn. “I need you to convince Lundin to step down without making a fuss.”

“Isn’t he fresh off a suspension from punching that one reporter?”

“I trust you to weasel your way out of any serious violence,” Erikur says dryly. “Get it done tonight and we’ll consider your bail repaid.”

“It’ll get done,” Peryn says, and he knows he sounds pathetically relieved, but he doesn’t have that kind of cash on hand. Erikur’s a sleaze, the kind of defense lawyer that specializes in keeping rich kids and crooked business owners out of jail, but it’s worth staying on his good side when he’s footing the bill. “Thanks. And look, about last night – “

“Last night, I didn’t get home until two AM, and I had a meeting at eight.” Erikur picks up the second half of his sandwich, leans back in his chair. “Tell me, Peryn. Am I wrong, to think I deserve a little more than a simple ‘thanks’?”

 _You only bailed me out to make sure I’d talk to Lundin,_ Peryn wants to say, but even he’s not that stupid. Erikur smirks at him across the desk, takes a bite. Peryn glances over his shoulder out of reflex, but the frosted glass obscures everything on the other side, the lobby reduced to smears of color like an abstract painting.

“I’m not blowing you while you eat that.”

“Fine,” Erikur says, and swallows, making a conciliatory show of putting the sandwich back on the desk. “Better?”

Peryn glances over his shoulder again, then sighs, pushing his chair back. “Fine. But this is the last time I’m doing this.”

“You say that every time,” Erikur says, grinning as he loosens his tie with his clean hand. He raises his other wrist, makes a show of checking his watch. “I’ve got a conference call at three. Make it good.”

“Shut up,” Peryn mutters, heat crawling up the back of his neck as he shuffles around the desk, and he hears Erikur chuckle as he sinks to his knees.

It’s not the first time he’s done this, not even the first time in Erikur’s office, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling exposed, even crowded under the desk. It’s big enough to kneel without hitting his head, at least, and he chews on his lower lip, watching Erikur undo his belt buckle. It clinks, and the zipper on his slacks is too loud in the silence. He’s already hard, cock curving back towards his gut, and Peryn can’t help himself; he braces his hands against thick-muscled thighs and leans in, rubbing his cheek against it before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the underside. It’s a nice cock, even if the guy attached makes him want to punch something more often than not. There’s nothing about Erikur that should be attractive, but looking up at him, head tipped back and tie loosened, Peryn’s struck with a sudden urge to take him home and see what those broad shoulders and belly and generous thighs look like without all that clothing in the way.

(He’s not stupid enough to take Erikur home, but sometimes he wonders.)

Erikur’s hand is rough when it curls in his hair, and he makes a satisfied noise deep in his chest when Peryn’s mouth wraps around him, sinking further down into his chair. He tastes like salt and musk, the solid heat of him stretching Peryn’s jaw, and when he shifts his hips the head of his cock suddenly hits the back of Peryn’s throat, making him gag.

“That’s better,” Erikur purrs, hand heavy on his neck.

There’s no reason he should be enjoying any of this, but Peryn still finds himself squeezing his thighs together, shifting underneath the desk as he pulls back enough to suck in air through his nose. This time, he takes Erikur down his throat without gagging, holding it as long as he can, and Erikur lets him, thumb stroking the back of Peryn’s neck. Each pass sends a shiver through him. He pulls back again, suckling at the head until Erikur groans and tightens his grip, hips flexing. This time he pushes Peryn’s head down slow and deliberate, filling his mouth, and a little huff of laughter slips free when Peryn squirms, fingers digging into his thighs.

“Go on,” he murmurs, hand twisting in Peryn’s hair. “Go on, you can take it, seen you do it plenty for me before,” and Peryn’s nails scrabble at the slick fabric of his suit pants, trembling on his knees as he lets Erikur press deep into his throat. It’s too much to do it for long, but he kind of loves it – the ache, the burn, the weight of it on his tongue. He holds it until he has to let up, gasping for air while tears bloom in his eyes, and this time Erikur lets him go. Gives him a second to catch his breath, then hooks a finger in the collar of his shirt and tugs him forward, cock leaving smears of slick where it bumps clumsily against his nose and cheek.

“Open up.”

This time he’s given free reign, and he sucks Erikur off sloppy and fast, one hand working furiously between his legs. It’s not his proudest moment. He’s not sure he cares. He’s hard and he’s wet and a distraction is a distraction, especially when it’s fucking your face. Spit drips down his chin. He imagines coming out of Erikur’s office with his coat open and the wet patches on his shirt on display, unable to look anyone in the eye. Gisli and whoever else is in the foyer would look at him and they would know, somehow, that he was on his knees five minutes earlier, drooling all over Erikur’s dick while he humped his own fingers like some kind of bitch in heat. Like it was playing in technicolor on an invisible screen behind him for everyone to see. He comes with a wretched, muffled groan, eyes squeezed shut. He’s still shuddering when Erikur shoves his head down and comes, hard, pulsing against his lips and tongue. Bitter, but he does his best to choke it down anyway. He’s already made enough of a mess.

He cleans himself up while Erikur finishes his sandwich, wiping off his face and buttoning his coat so the wet spots on his shirt don’t show. This time, at least, there’s a water bottle for him to wash the taste out of his mouth, and he chugs half of it in one go, ignoring the little smirk on Erikur’s lips.

“Lundin likes to drink down at the Winking Skeever most nights,” he says, leaning back in his chair. Satisfaction radiates from every pore. His belt is still undone. “I’d start there, if I were you.”

“Yeah,” Peryn says roughly, and clears his aching throat. “Thanks.”

Erikur beckons him over. Peryn hesitates, then inches closer. He’s grabbed and pulled down into a filthy kiss, one of those broad hands reaching around to squeeze his ass. Erikur bites his lip, then pats his cheek a couple of times, harder than strictly necessary.

“Get out of my office,” he says.

Thankfully there’s no one in the foyer but Gisli, nose still buried in her magazine. Peryn heads for the elevator doors, collar pulled up around his ears. Hits the button, fidgets while he’s waiting. The seconds drag on, and he suddenly senses eyes on his back; he turns to find Gisli watching him over the desk, chin propped in her hand. She looks unnervingly thoughtful.

“What?” he demands, hoping she can’t tell that he’s already starting to sweat.

She smiles. Peryn is reminded, somewhat forcefully, that she’s Erikur’s sister after all – it’s in the sharp edge of her teeth and the gleam in her eye, the way her lip curls crooked at the corner. “You know,” she says, “you have mustard in your hair.”

Peryn opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The elevator door dings. Gisli picks up her magazine again, flutters her fingers at him over the top of it.

“Have a nice day,” she says.

\-----------

The sign hanging over the door of the Winking Skeever has seen better days, faded neon flickering on and off in the brightly-lit street. It’s an old Solitude institution, owned by a family of Imperials since the Fourth Era. Once the busiest tavern in town, now a haven for washed-up drunks and old-timers who remember how things used to be through a rose-tinted fog. Nothing can resist the march of time forever, Peryn supposes. He’s seen it happen enough. Even Riften doesn’t look the same as it did when he was a kid, and that was a city that resisted change to its dying breath. Old buildings eventually crumbled and were torn down, replaced by something more modern; owners sold, families moved away, business needs shifted. He hasn’t been back in a couple of years. Isn’t sure if he ever will. Cowardice, maybe, but he doesn’t think he can stomach it. The bell attached to the door jingles when he opens it, light spilling out onto the sidewalk. He slinks inside.

It's busier than expected, the bar mostly full. A table full of Nords and Imperials chatters and drinks in the back corner, watching horse racing on the dingy wall-mounted TV. Peryn sidles up to the counter to order a beer – a real lager, strong and amber, imported from High Rock – and takes in the faces on his peripheral. Lundin’s easy to spot. He’s tucked away at the end of the bar, a half-empty bottle of wine and a full flagon in front of him. He looks the same as he does on television, more or less, but the cameras don’t capture his graying stubble or the sharp hollow of his cheeks. The unfocused look in his eye, however, is familiar territory. Peryn sees it most mornings in the mirror – when he bothers to look, anyway.

He waits, nursing his beer while he keeps an eye on Lundin, half-watching the race. It’s not one he has money on. When the wine bottle is almost empty, he signals the bartender to pour him two more of the same, and gets up, a flagon in each hand.

“It’s on me,” is the first thing he says, setting the flagon down, and Lundin starts, bloodshot gaze shifting over to him. Up close, he’s sharp-featured and severe, graying hair shaved close on the sides and a dissatisfied slant to his lips. The upper one curls as he takes Peryn in.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“No one.” He shrugs. “A fan.” It’s not really a lie. Blaise Lundin had been good, back before he’d fallen off the wagon. Better than good at his peak. “Just looked like you could use it.”

“A fan,” Lundin repeats, and chuckles bitterly. “Is that right?”

“Sure.” Peryn leans on the bar, close enough that only Lundin can hear him. “You’ve made me a lot of money. Figured I could at least buy you a drink. It’s only fair, right?”

Lundin eyes him for a moment longer, until his shoulders slump and he lets out a bark of a laugh. His fingers fold around the handle of the flagon. “Fine. Might as well. Tab’s already longer than the bloody Seven Thousand Steps.”

Peryn takes a long sip of his beer. His gut churns with sick anticipation, the way it always does before a job he doesn’t feel particularly good about, but he schools his face into a picture of calm, flashing Lundin a cheeky grin. His gambler’s mask, Gwen calls it.

“In that case,” he says, “you’d better let me buy you two.”

It’s near midnight when they stumble out of the bar, pools of light rippling on the cobbled street from windows and lampposts. It’s dark, everything but the bars and hole-in-the-wall food joints closed for the day, and the wind tugs at them as they stagger toward nowhere. Lundin’s a few steps ahead, laughing over some joke he’d just told, gait unsteady; Peryn’s not drunk, not really, but it’s easy enough to pretend. Lundin’s even shorter than he is, and when he catches up their shoulders bump together, arms slung awkwardly around each other’s shoulders. His breath is sour on Peryn’s cheek when he turns his head.

“’s a place around the corner, makes fresh slaughterfish pie every day,” he slurs, elbowing Peryn in the ribs. “Maybe you can buy me some of that, too, since I’ve made you so much money.”

“I have a better idea,” Peryn says, and blue light wreathes his hands like smoke.

Fighting isn’t something that comes easily, unlike so many men – he’s short and not especially fit, with an array of nervous tics that he can never seem to hide for long. It used to bother him, until he learned how to fight in other ways.

( _Learn to stand up for yourself_ , Gwen snaps in his memories, calm and composed. His younger self surfaces, wiping tears and snot on his sleeves as she shoves something at him. An ancient bone dagger, carved hilt worn smooth by countless hands. _If you can’t throw a punch, then bring a knife._

_How did you get this?_

_Doesn’t matter._ She curls his fingers around the hilt. _Better to fight dirty than not at all._ )

Now, Illusion magic come to him easy as breathing, and Lundin’s face goes slack as the spell settles over him in a shimmer of blue. Peryn pats him on the shoulder, glancing around to make sure there’s no one else on the street. Pacification spells are mostly limited to use by healers, in order to ease anxiety attacks or nervous breakdowns. It’s hard for anyone else to get a license. The targets tend to be… suggestible in the aftermath.

“You have a lot of debt, my friend,” he murmurs now, keeping his voice low. Soothing. “I’m sure you’d like to make some of it go away. Wouldn’t you?” Lundin nods blankly, and Peryn smiles, encouraging. He’s sweating despite the chill in the air. If he doesn’t pull this off, he really is screwed. “I can help you with that.”

“You can help me with that,” Lundin echoes, looking far, far away.

“Five grand,” Peryn says, and watches a spark of interest flicker in the void. “Drop out of the Preakness and it’s all yours.”

Lundin’s features contort, a flash of anger crumpling them like parchment. Peryn can feel him resisting, surging against the barriers of the spell at the suggestion. He refocuses, imagining it as a blanket of snow across the landscape of Lundin’s mind. Thick, soundless, smothering. Blank. His hands glow once more, and after a second the anger subsides, Lundin’s expression smoothing out. He doesn’t say anything.

“All you have to do is sit out this one time,” Peryn cajoles, giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Day after the race, it’ll be waiting for you. Alright?”

Another agonizing beat passes, and then Lundin nods jerkily, still expressionless.

“Alright.”

“Right,” Peryn says, and exhales. “Very good. Now, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to go to that place around the corner, get yourself some pie, then go home and go to sleep. When you wake up, you’re going to think dropping out of the race was all your idea. You won’t remember me, except as someone who once bought you a drink at a bar.” He steps away, and gives Lundin a gentle push, turning him in the right direction. “Restaurant’s that way.”

Lundin obediently staggers off in the direction he’s pointed, weaving along the abandoned sidewalk to the corner. The spell will wear off by the time he reaches the restaurant, Peryn figures, but the suggestion will remain. He watches Lundin’s hunched figure disappear around the corner, then turns and walks the other direction, back the way they came. Lights up a cigarette, pulls out his phone.

_better make sure your wood elf is ready for the Preakness_

He passes the Gilded Lily, smoky bass pumping behind velvet curtains. His phone buzzes before he’s even shut off the screen. Erikur’s calling him. Erikur rarely calls him, and never this late. He hesitates, but only for a second.

“Where are you?” Erikur asks without preamble, and Peryn takes another long drag of his cigarette.

“Down by the Gilded Lily. Why?”

A tinny laugh grates against his ear. “I thought you didn’t like strip clubs.”

“I don’t.” There’s an awning in front of a space for rent, and he stops under it for a moment, leaning against the wall. “You checking up on me or something? Making sure I didn’t screw up the job?”

“I’m still at the office,” Erikur says, and there’s a meaningful pause until Peryn snorts. Maybe it’s just the beers from earlier, but he feels oddly reckless.

“Fuck you. You got mustard in my hair earlier.”

“You weren’t complaining,” Erikur says, and laughs again. Something clinks faintly in the background.

“Are you drunk?”

“Only mildly.” His voice drops into a purr, winding its way through the speaker. “Take a cab to my office. It’s less than ten minutes.”

“You can’t just snap your fingers and expect me to come running whenever you’re free,” Peryn says, but he’s not sure which one of them he’s trying to convince.

“I don’t recall snapping my fingers,” Erikur says. Peryn can _hear_ him smirking.

“Listen – “

“I’ve been thinking about bending you over my desk and fucking you all day,” he says, and Peryn swallows, hard. “If you're not interested, then feel free to hang up and prove me wrong.”

He should hang up. He should. He stands hunched under the awning, finger over the _End Call_ button, and listens to the sound of their breathing, just out of sync. Hasn’t he done enough for one day? His apartment is waiting for him, cold take-out in the fridge and a stack of late bills on the nightstand. He could hang up, go home, and go to sleep. Start looking for a new job tomorrow, or at least one where he isn’t fucking his main contact. He thinks about Lundin’s unfocused eyes, that wave of anger surging against him as he smothered it with the spell, and waking up tomorrow knowing that he decided to drop out of the race, even if he’s not sure why.

“Cab fare to the office is going to run you twenty,” he says, and hangs up before Erikur can say anything at all. 

He gets the email two minutes later. Erikur’s transferred him twenty dollars, accompanied by a note.

_Get here in the next ten minutes and I’ll suck you off first._

“Dibella save me,” Peryn mutters, though he knows it won’t do any good, and hurries to flag down a cab.


End file.
